


I don't wanna know who I am without you

by echoes_of_realities



Category: Glee
Genre: (I don't Really mention them but also:, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Fate, Fate & Destiny, Red String of Fate, because I Kind of mention it)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 19:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16102598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: In one story, they almost don’t ever meet. That would have been their saddest one, the one where their paths keep almost crossing. If she had have been a little faster, if she had have been a little slower, if they didn’t keep crossing their wires and slipping past each other they would have metThat story would be the saddest, the one where they’re missed connections and miserable years and almost-maybe-not-quites.But that’s also not the only story.Or: An exploration of soulmates, fate, and AUs.





	I don't wanna know who I am without you

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment, of sorts. I wanted to try something new, and so, here. I don’t know if it turned out quite how I wanted but at the same time it turned out exactly how I pictured it, so. I just really wanted to explore the idea of soulmates and fate, and after all, aren’t AUs just continual experiments in the idea of a soulmate? The same people falling in love in a hundred different ways? So. Anyways. This is also kind of like a “five things, one thing” fic in, like, the loosest sense of the concept.
> 
> (An important note for this fic: We take childhood friends Brittana very seriously around here lol)
> 
> Title and excerpts from “Agape” by Bear’s Den. 
> 
> (Also the title for this fic Could have been really angsty, but I wanted to see if I could make it Happy, so that’s the other reason for this fic lmao.)

In one story, they almost don’t ever meet. That would have been their saddest one, the one where their paths keep almost crossing. If she had set her alarm wrong they would have crashed into each other when she took a shortcut, if she had ran instead of jogged they would have sat together on the train, if she had collected those bets they would have met at the cash register, if she had chosen a different wall they would have created something new together, if her roommate had gotten engaged they would have been neighbours; if she had have been a little faster, if she had have been a little slower, if they didn’t keep crossing their wires and slipping past each other they would have met.

In that story, they’re both miserable, sad and then angry, mean and then lost, compliant and then invisible. In that story, they’re longing for something they never get, they’re looking for something they don’t know, they’re missing something they’ve never had.

That story would have been their saddest story. It’s also the one that never really happens. Their souls are mirrors to each other, one raises her right hand and the other raises her left in response, perfect reflection. It’s an ancient connection, the one that links their hearts together with string strong enough to withstand the years and lifetimes and heartbreaks and joys, one that’s older than Plato’s _Symposium_ , older than the myths and the gods and the stars themselves. They fall in love in thousands of different ways over thousands of different lifetimes, and yet the story where they don’t meet is the only one that never really happens.

That story would have been the saddest, the one where they’re missed connections and miserable years and _almost-maybe-not-quites._

But in the real story, the truthful-painful-joyful one, they met in that fist week of kindergarten, blue on brown, blonde on black, hand on hand.

But that’s also not the only story.

 

* * *

 

_Agape_

_Please don't dissipate_

_I know that I have got it all wrong_

 

* * *

 

When Brittany became a bike courier, it was mostly because she needed some extra money and the requirements were the ability to read and the ability to ride a bike, both of which she’s more or less had down since she was five years old; Brittany keeps the job because she likes feel of the tires bouncing off the curb and the beat of her bag against her back, the adrenaline rush and the fact that by the time people yell abuse at her it’s lost to the wind.

She likes it because she feels free when she otherwise doesn’t, and she likes it because it’s easy and it doesn’t make her feel dumb like some things do. 

Mondays are always the busiest days, Brittany finds, mostly because they’re catching up on the weekend mail and packages, and she doesn’t mind the relentless pace, not really, because it keeps her occupied, but her bag is always heavier on Mondays and by the time she gets home her shoulders always ache. She always elects for the morning shifts, because she still has an afternoon job and if she works first thing in the morning then she can get a small break and have lunch off.

It’s nearing the end of her Monday shift, and Brittany only has one small, beige package between her and the best pizza in the city when it happens. Brittany considers herself to be a fairly safe driver on her bike, she always checks twice before turning and she doesn’t quite go at the breakneck speeds of the other couriers. Except, she was running late this morning and she didn’t get a chance to eat and she’s starving, so she chances a glance over her shoulder and jumps the sidewalk to head down a back alley, one she knows is a shortcut to the residential street her last delivery is on. It’s a bit of a squeeze on the first half of the alley and the handlebars of Brittany’s bike scrapes the brick walls a little as she slows down. In the middle of the alley the walls widen back up and sunlight streams through and lights up the dumpsters near the exit of the alley. 

She grins as she nears the exit to the alley because she just managed to skip about ten minutes of her route and her pizza is just that much closer now. She turns the corner back onto the sidewalk and her front wheel crashes into something solid, something solid that yelps in pain as it falls down, sending Brittany head over heels onto the pavement in front of her.

(Brittany doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment her life changes; this is the moment her soul settles.)

Brittany groans and rolls over onto her knees, suddenly thankful for the over-expensive helmet her mom insisted on buying her when Brittany first got the job. Her elbow stings and when she lifts a hand to check it, her fingers come away sticky and she hisses out a gasp of pain through her teeth. Her back hurts too, especially where she landed on the parcel in her bag, but that’s more from the wind getting knocked out of her than anything, and she quickly sucks in desperate breaths. Her bike is on its side a little ways away, the front wheel spinning lazily and creaking out its own complaints. Brittany sighs in relief when she realizes that, aside from a slightly lopsided seat now, her bike seems to have survived.

“Ow,” a voice groans, and Brittany’s head snaps to the entrance to the alley. 

“Oh my god,” Brittany gasps as she scrambles over to the prone figure, unsnapping her helmet and tossing it carelessly in the direction of her bike; it bounces off the wheel and sends her bike into a cacophony of protesting creaks but Brittany barely notices. “Oh my god are you alright? Did I kill you?” Brittany rambles, “Because that’s really not good. I swear I’m not usually this bad at biking.”

The woman lays sprawled on the ground, dark hair haloed around her head like ocean waves at night. There’s a small scrape along her forehead, and her eyes flutter a little as Brittany hovers over her, the tips of blonde hair brushing across her skin. Dark eyes try to focus on her, but they’re hazy and a little distant and Brittany suddenly flashes back to that first aid course she took when she was thirteen years old except she can’t actually remember anything about it aside from the fact that she’s not supposed to move the injured person. “Angel?” the woman croaks. 

Brittany laughs a little, relief and nerves at the fact that she hasn’t killed this woman making her stomach churn. “No,” she says, pointing at herself, “Brittany. Are you okay?”

The woman’s brow furrows a little. “Hurts,” she mumbles. 

Brittany’s heart breaks a little and she quickly sits back on her heels to survey the damage. There’s no pools of blood or twisted limbs or bones sticking out, which is good, but both of the woman’s knees are bloody and cut, probably where the tire guard of Brittany’s bike caught her, and something deep in Brittany’s stomach clenches at the thought that this is all her fault.

“I’m sorry,” Brittany whispers, carefully probing the woman’s legs. There’s some tender spots that make her wince and hiss, but nothing that makes her scream so Brittany doesn’t think anything’s broken. Or she _hopes_ nothing is broken.

“Sit?” the woman rasps after long moments of letting Brittany fuss over her. Brittany hesitates, but the woman is already struggling to sit back up so she quickly crawls back up to the woman’s shoulders and gently guides her upright. The woman winces and grabs at her head, and Brittany catches sight of the long gash along her arm and elbow that mirrors the one still stinging Brittany’s own arm. 

“I’m so sorry,” Brittany whispers again, and something dark and heavy clawing at the inside of her stomach until she’s nauseous with the guilt.

“S’okay,” the woman mumbles. “I should have been watching where I was going.” Brittany shakes her head and opens her mouth to protest but freezes when she feels fingers on her sore arm. “You’re hurt,” the woman says childishly and Brittany can’t help the giggles that spill out of her. 

“I’m okay,” Brittany says, “it’s you I’m worried about. I think you might have a concussion.” 

The woman shakes her head quickly but gasps in pain. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she manages. “Fuck that hurt.”

Brittany slaps a hand over her mouth to stop the giggles that try to spill out, but the woman catches sight of her and offers a lopsided grin that’s only a little pained. “Are you okay?” The woman hesitates for a long moment, her face caught between a weird mix of pain and longing, before she shrugs. “Let me help you to the hospital,” Brittany offers. “Or at least a walk in clinic,” she adds when the woman hesitates. “It’s the least I could do for, you know, running you over with my bike.”  
“You really don’t have to,” the woman says, and Brittany doesn’t think she’s ever been this relieved in her life now that the woman seems to be making complete sentences. 

“I want to,” Brittany says earnestly. “It would make me feel better, to know you’re alright, you know, for sure,” she trails off and the woman offers her that lopsided smile again.

“Santana,” the woman offers.

“Wait,” Brittany gasps, sliding her backpack off her back and unzipping the main pocket, pawing through it until her hands close around a box. “Santana Lopez?” she asks.

Santana turns wary and her eyes narrow in suspicion (Brittany thinks it’s actually kind of adorable). “Why do you ask?” she says, and the low rasp of warning in her voice should not be as hot as it is.

Brittany pulls the slightly smushed brown parcel out of her bag and holds it up for Santana to see. “I have a package for you,” she explains cheekily.

Santana stares blankly at Brittany for a long moment before a smile starts to spread across her face, scrunching up her nose and revealing deep dimples in her cheeks, her head thrown back and her shoulders shaking as she laughs.

Brittany’s stomach swoops like it did when she went head over heels off her bike.

(Somewhere in the back of Brittany’s mind, she knows that this is the moment her life changes because something eases and settles in her chest.)

 

* * *

 

_I'm reaching out_

_To touch your voice_

_But baby, I'm clutching at straws_

 

* * *

 

It takes a couple years for Santana to do what most high school graduates do when given half a chance. Her mom worries constantly, even before Santana boards that first plane, but Santana promises to call as often as she can, and email every time she has a wifi connection. She doesn’t _really_ have a plan, and normally that would really bother her, but her life has been one god-awful thing after another lately, everything with her father and her abuela and people she thought were her friends piling up one after the other, and she’s beyond desperate for an escape. So she gathers her savings and the money her abuela had set aside for her — the money she hadn’t been able to take back before she disowned her granddaughter — and she hugs her mom for a long time at the airport before she boards a plane headed for somewhere that’s not _here_.

She has her plane ticket for the way there, an overlarge backpack stuffed full with anything she might need, her wallet, and her cellphone, and that’s it. She dozes for most of the flight, and when she lands, something deep within her trembles and awakens at the idea of the mysterious future awaiting her away from the States. She gets through security and out onto the sidewalk, and she picks a direction and starts walking. She gets the hang of the city pretty quick, and she avoids the touristy spots after the first couple days and explores the hidden crannies of the city for another week before she boards a train to somewhere.

She sits at the back with her headphones in, and a few other people scatter themselves near the front of the train. She sleeps for a while but jolts away when the train lurches itself to a stop. Some people get off and some people get on, and Santana pays them little mind until a blonde with a backpack as big as her own plops down beside her, close enough that her hip presses to Santana’s and Santana’s senses are filled with the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine. Despite how good this stranger smells, Santana frowns a little at the intrusion to her privacy.

(Santana doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment her life changes; this is the moment her soul settles.)

Her eyes settle on wide, blue eyes, and Santana’s protest dies on her lips. The blonde leans close, her voice dropped low to a whisper, and Santana’s eyes drop to thin pink lips. “There’s this guy who I think has been following me for a little bit, maybe,” she admits, and her eyes flicker up to a man with sandy blonde hair and dark eyes boarding the train. Santana follows her gaze and feels a surge of protectiveness for this stranger whose hip is pressed to her own. Santana’s no stranger to what it’s like travelling alone as a young woman, even if she’s only been doing it for a week, and she offers the blonde a small smile. 

“I’m Santana,” she says, holding out her hand.

The woman blinks slowly for a second before a small smile spreads across her lips and she relaxes a little, loosening the death grip she has on her backpack straps to shake Santana’s hand, her fingers warm and strong. “I’m Brittany,” she says, and swings her backpack to the ground where it falls against Santana’s.

They talk for hours, and Santana almost forgets that they were mere strangers just this morning; she doesn’t think she’s laughed this hard in a long time, or felt this relaxed either. They chat and nap and just sit in comfortable silence until that man with the sandy hair and dark eyes grows bored and gets off at the next stop. Brittany breathes a sigh of relief and slouches in her seat, and Santana gathers her courage and reaches over to tug playfully on one of Brittany’s braids, eliciting a wide smile. Santana’s stop comes up next, and she asks Brittany where she’s heading next as she swings her backpack up onto her back. 

Brittany shrugs and looks up at Santana with catlike eyes and a wide smile, teasing and bright. “Wherever the train takes me,” she answers, and Santana laughs and shakes her head, trying to ignore the bitter flash of disappointment that licks at her stomach and threatens to claw at her heart.

“Well, have a good time somewhere,” Santana says, turning and heading for the doors of the train.

She hears Brittany’s “you too” all the way to her hotel room. 

Santana spends the next couple weeks exploring the city she’s ended up in and catching rides on donkey pulled carts and rickety old carriages. She talks to the locals and explores the tiny histories not included in tourist pamphlets, and when she gets bored she hops on the next train and sleeps, walking up just as it’s pulling into a new city. She disembarks and breathes in the new air, taking in the colours and sounds and smells of a new experience as she weaves her way through the crowd. She’s just squeezing past two men haggling with a women, and obviously not doing too well based on the woman’s cackling laughter, when she catches sight of blonde braids and an overlarge backpack and laughs a little, wondering if it’s even possible. 

“Brittany?” she calls, and the woman starts a little before looking around warily. Santana allows the smile threatening her bloom in full as she fights her way towards the backpack she can just glimpse through the crowd. “Brittany!” she tries again, and this time Brittany turns the right way and spots Santana, and the way her eyes light up make something deep in Santana swoop and fly.

“Santana,” she laughs, and she sweeps a surprised Santana into a tight hug, laughing right in Santana’s ear and causing goosebumps to erupt along every bit of exposed skin. “I’m so happy to see you again,” she says, still into Santana’s ear and Santana’s fingers tighten involuntarily in Brittany’s shirt. 

“You too, Brittany,” Santana mumbles. Someone bumps into Santana’s backpack and sends them spinning to the side, only slowing when Brittany’s hands fall to Santana’s hips to steady her.

Brittany glares at whoever bumped them, but they’ve already been long swallowed by the crowd. “C’mon,” Brittany says, leaning close and half shouting the words, “I know the best place to eat.” Santana nods and lets Brittany take her hand and drag her through the crowd, ignoring the way her heart leaps just a little at the gesture.

They find out they’re booked at the same tiny hotel, their rooms right across the hall from each other’s, and they spend the next two weeks exploring the city and surrounding countryside together, more often than not ending up in the others room and giggling on the bed until they fall asleep.

They have so much fun together, Santana forgets why she wanted to do this trip by herself in the first place, and all too soon they’re standing at the platform of the train station, a train waiting to take Brittany west already stopped at the boarding platform, Santana’s train to take her south coming soon after.

Santana traces her phone in her front pocket and glances up at Brittany, too scared to ask the question because she’s even more scared of the answer.

Brittany just shakes her head and smiles, soft and sad, aching understanding obvious in her blue eyes. “I didn’t bring a phone with me,” she explains softly.

Santana swallows but crouches down and digs through the front pocket of her bag anyways. She produces a pen and stands, pulling Brittany’s left hand to her, carefully writing ten digits across Brittany’s pale skin. “Just in case,” Santana whispers.

Brittany swallows thickly and doesn’t look away from Santana for such a long moment that Santana feels a little bit like she’s drowning. The train whistle blows and Brittany gasps prettily before surging forward and wrapping Santana into a hug even tighter than the one she gave her two weeks ago in that market place, but it feels more like a lifetime ago. “Have a good time somewhere,” Brittany whispers. “And maybe I’ll be somewhere again too.”

“Third time’s a charm,” Santana agrees, mumbling her words into Brittany’s neck like a promise.

Brittany kisses her cheek, lingering for a moment too long for her intent to be purely platonic, before she’s off the platform and on the train.

Santana can feel Brittany’s soft lips against her cheek all the way onto her train and on into the next city. 

She halfheartedly explores the next couple cities she’s in, but she finds that it’s not as much fun when she’s not being dragged from place to place by Brittany’s hand in hers, that the history is kind of boring when Brittany’s not whispering it in her ear and trying to hide their giggles from the tour guide, that the streets feel more lonely when she can’t glance around and spot blue eyes just a few feet from hers.

Santana kind of floats between cities for a couple weeks, but no place can really hold her focus anymore. She finds herself on the train more often than not, dozing off against the window and jolting awake at the ghostly feeling of Brittany sleeping against her shoulder. She ends up in Greece, eventually, and it feels different this time, more decisive. She wonders if she’s supposed to head home from here because the city makes her feel brighter and more at ease than any of the cities she’s aimlessly passed through for the last couple weeks.

She trudges through the city and finds the tiny hotel she booked at a week ago, just wanting a shower and a real bed, but the desk manager shrugs helplessly and tells her that they’re all booked with no vacancies at all, so booked, in fact, that Santana had somehow been overbooked for her room.

“What?” Santana snaps, not feeling the least bit bad for her temper because she’s too tired and hungry and travel-dirty to care.

“The system must have had an error in it,” the man explains calmly, and now that Santana’s paying attention his thick Irish accent throws her for a second, because it kind of clashes with the whole Greek Island thing, “Another patron had originally booked the room two weeks in advance.”

“Oh my god,” Santana groans, “I just want a real bed and a hot shower. You guys were the last place with empty rooms that wouldn’t cost me my firstborn child to stay in, and I booked the room last week so this wouldn’t happen.”

“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” he says, “But we cannot do anything, as the patron has already checked in.”

“Who is it?” Santana demands.

“It’s me,” a voice says behind her, and something deep in Santana’s chest tugs at her heart as a smile tugs at her lips.

Santana turns around and grins when she spots the blonde standing in the middle of the lobby, a wide smile on her face, her cheeks pinked from the sun and obscuring her freckles, her overlarge backpack sitting by her feet. Santana leaves her bag sitting by the front desk and throws herself at Brittany with a laugh, that bright, settled feeling she first got after getting off the train in this city blooming and filling all her vacant places. 

“I see you must be having a good time somewhere,” Brittany whispers.

Santana just nuzzles further into Brittany’s embrace. “Third time’s the charm,” she agrees, content to stay buried in Brittany’s arms despite the sticky heat radiating from both of them. Brittany sighs and presses a kiss to the top of Santana’s head, so gentle that Santana almost doesn’t feel it, before rocking backwards on her heels a little, dragging Santana further into her body. Santana hums and lets her arms tighten around Brittany’s solid warmth.

“So,” Santana says after a long moment, “About the room.”

“Dibs on the shower first.”

“Britt!”

“I paid for it!”

(Somewhere in the back of Santana’s mind, she knows that this is the moment her life changes because something eases and settles in her chest.)

 

* * *

 

_Even though_

_Your words hurt the most_

_I still wanna hear them, every day_

 

* * *

 

Brittany doesn’t really mind working at the jeweller’s store; she gets to admire pretty jewellery all day, and she’s kind of the manager so she’s pretty important, and she gets to play the best guessing game ever. She’s really good at the game too, she just _knows_ what occasion people are buying for, and usually for who too; when it’s an apologetic attempt or a happy gift, when it’s someone desperately buying it or someone treating themself, whether it’s for a fancy new bracelet or an in memorial necklace. Brittany just _knows_ these things when someone walks into the store, and it makes her the undisputed champion of the game among her coworkers, and works as a way to earn a little extra cash. People just don’t learn their lesson and keep betting more and more money against Brittany in the hopes that someday they’ll win, Brittany just keeps taking bets in the hopes that she can save up for that new car she’s been looking at.

It’s after collecting two of these said bets in the break room before heading out to man the cash register that a new customer walks into the empty store, a woman with a pretty coat and a pretty skirt and pretty eyes and pretty hair and pretty _everything_ ; she’s even got these deep, deep dimples as she laughs into the phone pressed against her ear and Brittany knows she’s a goner right then and there; she’s _always_ had a weak spot for dimples.

(Brittany doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment her life changes; this is the moment her soul settles.)

The woman says something else into the phone and something in her eyes brightens and softens as she quietly murmurs “Love you too” into the phone, her face relaxed and calm and something Brittany doesn’t understand twinges in her chest.

The woman’s eyes land on Brittany as she shoves her phone in her pocket and her step falters just for a second, but Brittany knows there’s a part of the carpet there that always bunches and she reminds herself to reprimand Gracie for always forgetting to straighten it out. Brittany’s so busy wondering why it’s always that specific part of the carpet that bunches that she doesn’t even notice the woman is right in front of her until she’s clearing her throat.

Brittany’s eyes shoot to the woman’s and catch there. “Sorry,” she blurts, “I didn’t want you to trip on the carpet.”

The woman smiles and those dimples crease her cheeks and _damn_ , Brittany thinks, sucking in a breath through her teeth, she’s seriously _adorable_. “I appreciate that,” the woman says.

Brittany blushes but she doesn’t really know why so she busies herself with putting away the receipt still in her hand from the last customer. “Can I help you with anything?” Brittany asks, keeping her eyes on the woman’s and forcing herself not to stare at her lips as she talks. 

“I’m looking for something for a birthday gift,” the woman answers immediately, “A necklace, I think, or— Or something.”

Brittany nods and gestures for the woman to follow her on the other side of the counter, heading for the wall of necklaces they have, asking the usual questions about metal type, chain length, pendant ideas.

“I was—” the woman starts and then bites off her sentence, white teeth sinking into her bottom lip, her hands clasped in front of her. “This sounds weird but I was looking for something, like, bear related?”

“Bear related?” Brittany says blankly.

The woman shifts slightly and starts to play with her fingers. “Um, yeah?”

Brittany offers the woman a smile; she shouldn’t be swooning over how adorable this woman is when she’s supposed to be a professional, but Brittany really can’t control the butterflies in her stomach. “Okay, well bear with me while I look,” she says, turning to the wall in front of her and quickly scanning the rows of necklaces with a practiced eye. The lights of the store make everything reflect back at Brittany, sparkling and new, and she spots the row of animal related necklaces just as she hears a muffled giggle behind her.

“Did you really just—” the woman asks, and Brittany shoots the woman a wide smirk over her shoulder.

“Did you just get that now?”

The woman laughs in full now, a real, bright belly laugh, and shakes her head a little, looking pleased, like she managed to eat the last piece of cake before anyone else could. “Yeah I did,” she giggles, and Brittany’s stomach flips over as she scans the rows, spotting the necklace she was looking for.

It’s a tiny silhouette of a bear hanging on a thin chain, both of them in shiny, sterling silver, sparkling lightly and sending flashes of gold playing across the woman’s face. “What about this one?” Brittany asks, “It’s our only bear related necklace.”

The woman reaches out and delicately cups the charm against her palm, her eyes sparkling as she nods softly.

“For someone special?” Brittany murmurs, not because she’s trying to be quiet but because the moment feels soft and she doesn’t want to disturb it.

The woman nods distractedly while she fingers the tiny bear charm hanging from the chain. “Really special,” she agrees, “It is really pretty. She’ll love its.”

Brittany’s heart sinks but she manages a small smile as she quickly lists off the cost and warranty and before she knows it Brittany’s back at the cash register, ringing the woman through and filling out an order sheet. “So you want to order the long chain, right? Because it won’t come in for a couple days, probably not until Friday.”

“That’s fine,” the woman says, “I don’t need it until next Wednesday anyways.”

Brittany hums in acknowledgement and scribbles down the boring stuff like the store number and the length of the chain and the colour of the charm. “And your name?” Brittany finally prompts, faltering slightly under the woman’s curious eyes. “For— For the order,” Brittany explains lamely, “So we know which one is yours when you come to pick it up.”

“Santana Lopez,” the woman says, and there’s something bright and warm in her eyes as Brittany quickly writes her name down. 

“And a phone number in case you forget?”

“I won’t forget,” Santana says confidently, almost playfully, and it flusters Brittany for a moment before Santana quickly lists off her phone number. Brittany fumbles with the cash register, but eventually manages to do enough that the prompt for Santana’s credit card flashes on the machine, and while Santana’s busy she slaps her hands to her cheeks and wills away the burning. Santana finishes quickly and smiles at Brittany, still managing to make her stomach flip over, before she wishes Brittany a _good day_ and heads to the store’s front door.

“So Brittany,” Gracie says as they watch Santana exit the store and disappear around the corner, “What’s the bet?”

Brittany sighs and longingly stares at the door. “Birthday present for her significant other,” Brittany says dejectedly.

Gracie chuckles knowingly. “Two hundred dollars,” she says and Brittany eyes her in shock.

“Huh?” she manages.

Gracie’s smile turns sly and smug. “What have you got to lose? If you win, you get two hundred bucks. If you lose, that means little miss dreamy eyes is single and available.”

Brittany manages a small scoff. “Like you know anything about pretty girls.”

Gracie laughs. “Maybe not, but I do know you. And _you_ turned into complete mush when she walked in.”

Brittany pokes Gracie in the shoulder. “I’m all solid,” she protests, “not mushy at all.”

Gracie just rolls her eyes and swats at Brittany’s offending hand. “Are you taking the bet or not?”

Brittany sighs and offers Gracie her hand to shake on it.

Brittany collects a hundred dollars off the bet the four weeks later, when Santana comes in and explains how well received the birthday gift was, but Santana gives no indication of who she gave it too. But based on how much her face softens when she speaks of the receiver of the gift, Brittany knows that Santana must love her more than anything. So Brittany keeps quiet and ignores the way her stomach flips over and the way her heart pounds all the way down to her fingertips and the way her cheeks flame every time Santana smiles at her, she keeps quiet and helps Santana pick out jewellery. 

Santana comes in every couple weeks, always when the store is weirdly empty, and always when her coworkers duck into the backroom. Brittany doesn’t mind, and they usually spend more time chatting than they do looking at jewellery. Brittany finds out that Santana’s a big fancy lawyer with enough money to buy a new piece of jewellery for her girlfriend (or Brittany thinks it’s her girlfriend, Santana doesn’t wear a ring so she doesn’t think that she’s married but who’s Brittany to judge?) every couple weeks, or at least once a month. Brittany finds out more about Santana, like how she talks about her significant other with this fond, brightness and even though it makes Brittany’s heart ache it makes her happy too, just listening to Santana talk about the person she loves enough to buy expensive jewellery every couple weeks.

It’s one day when Brittany and Gracie are manning the store by themselves, barely twenty minutes before closing, when Santana comes in with a furrowed brow and her hands knotted together. She looks nervous, Brittany knows, and like she has a question burning in her mouth; Brittany knows what that’s like, how her teeth ache with everything she wants to ask but knows she can’t, how her tongue and bottom lip get sore from biting on them too much, how the words always tangle up against her cheeks.

“Hey,” Brittany greets, shooting Gracie a furtive, desperate glance as Gracie smirks and fades away to the other end of the store.

“Hey,” Santana mumbles.

“Is there something wrong with the bracelet?” Brittany asks. Santana was in just yesterday, and Brittany knows there’s usually three or four weeks between her purchases, so she can’t imagine why Santana would be here now.

Santana shakes her head wordlessly but won’t quite meet Brittany’s eyes. “Hey,” Brittany murmurs, “Is— Is everything, like, alright? With you?”

Santana’s mouth open and closes for a long moment before she seems to shake herself out of it, taking a deep, steadying breath; it makes her nostrils flare a little, and that’s how Brittany knows this is serious. “I was, um, wondering if, uh, maybe you wanted to go get a coffee after you get off work?” Santana says all in a rush.

Brittany’s insides flutter and she feels light and bright with hope, until something in her stomach curdles and reminds her why she hasn’t asked Santana out like she’s wanted to for months. “Um, don’t— Don’t you have, like, a girlfriend or something?” she mumbles.

Santana’s brow furrows adorably, her nose scrunched up and her lips twisted to the side. “What makes you think that?”

“Well,” Brittany gestures around the store, “I mean, I figured you did because you’re, like, our _best_ customer and— You know. You’re always buying jewelry for happy-no-real-reason occasions, so.”

Santana starts giggling, her dark eyes alight with amusement and something warmer, something softer. Brittany frowns a little because while she loves listening to Santana’s laugh, she’s more than a little bit confused. “I’ve been buying stuff for my mom,” Santana finally admits around her laughter.

“Huh?” Brittany says blankly at the same time Gracie yells that she owes her a hundred bucks across the store (Brittany barely registers Gracie’s shout beyond a passing thought that she’s never been so happy to lose money before).

Santana’s laughter burst from her in this bright, honey thick way, innocent and almost childlike. “For my mom,” she repeats around her giggles, “I got her that necklace for her birthday back in May and I’ve been buying her other jewellery from here just because, and also because I thought you were really cute.”

“I just— Can I— Why?” Brittany stutters. She feels about three steps behind everything; everything except her heart, which pounds throughout her body until she can feel it in her temples and the peak of her cheekbones, her heart seems to know what’s going on and Brittany desperately tries to catch up.

Santana’s smile softens and she gets this distant, melancholy look in her eyes. “We were— We were pretty poor when I was little,” Santana explains quietly, but there’s this fond smile playing at her lips, “and it was just me and my mom for all my life, you know? And she worked so hard just to put a roof over our heads and food on the table and she never took any time for herself, so once I got accepted into law school I made a promise to buy her something as often as I can because she never would otherwise. And to, like, thank her for everything she’s done for me.”

“That’s really adorable,” Brittany says and Santana gets this bright, breathless, bashful look, glancing up at Brittany from under her eyelashes. “But, uh, so,” Brittany hesitates for a long time, trying to process everything but mostly deaf to any thought beyond the fact that Santana _doesn’t have a girlfriend_. “You— You’ve been buying all this jewellery for your mom?” she clarifies.

Santana nods quickly.

“And you haven’t been buying them for a girlfriend?”

Santana bites on her lip, to try and contain her smile but her dimples crease her cheeks anyways, and shakes her head.

“And you don’t have a girlfriend at all?”

Santana’s smile does get away from her right then, but so does Brittany’s so it’s alright, really. “Then, I’d love to go out with you,” Brittany says in a rush, and Santana gets that same soft, _I just ate the last piece of cake_ look she did the first day they met. 

“Awesome,” Santana says, trying to play it cool but based on the wide, dimpled smile on her face she kind of fails; Brittany doesn’t really care though because she kind of loves that dimpled smile.

Brittany’s eyes draw away from Santana’s cheeks to catch and hold on dark eyes, and she feels like she’s drowning in Santana’s eyes just then, because her chest gets all tight and she kind of forgets to breathe and her hearing is all muffled, but she can’t find it in herself to care because they close in less than fifteen minutes and then she’ll get to go on a date with the woman she’s been kind of, sort of, not so secretly pining after for months.

“Mama bear,” Brittany says suddenly, breaking out of her daydream with a gasp.

Santana looks confused but that easy, soft smile remains on her face. “Huh?”

“Mama bear,” Brittany repeats, clasping her hands together in front of her chest and rocking back on her heels like she just figured out what her birthday present was, “That first necklace you bought for your mom was a little bear charm. Mama bear.”

Santana doesn’t laugh or agree like Brittany thinks she will, instead her face and eyes soften so much it looks like she might just melt right into the floor. “You remember that?” Santana murmurs.

Brittany suddenly feels too big inside, like her body can’t quite contain everything she feels and it’s trying to burst out of her; it manifests itself in the too hot blush Brittany feels prickling the skin across her cheeks. “Uh-huh,” she confirms with the tiniest nod.

Santana smiles until all Brittany can stare at are those deep, deep dimples. “That’s cool,” she says, but Brittany already knows that it’s so much more than just _cool_.

(Somewhere in the back of Brittany’s mind, she knows that this is the moment her life changes because something eases and settles in her chest.)

 

* * *

 

_You say let it go_

_But I can’t let it go_

_I wanna believe every word that you say_

 

* * *

 

Santana’s not really sure how she got into street art (graffiti, if you’re the law or the police, both of which Santana desperately avoids), but she’s pretty sure her mom would be disappointed in her. As it is, Santana’s been raised by her distant and cold father since she was about ten, though, in reality, she’s actually been brought up mostly by a series of nannies her father hired so he didn’t have to deal with her. She can still remember the curl of her mom’s smile, the way her voice would rasp over lullabies, the smear of flour on her cheek when she taught Santana how to bake, the way her warm hand on Santana’s back could instantly soothe any nightmare or illness; Santana hates that more and more often these memories are being over taken by ones of a cold tombstone and dead flowers.

Her father doesn’t care about her and she’s too old for nannies now and she’s almost graduated and she knows her mom wouldn’t approve, so maybe that’s why she does it; because she’s lonely and stressed and maybe just a little bit angry at her mom for dying and leaving her only daughter with a man who cares more for his doctor’s salary than he does for his own flesh and blood. She has a complicated relationship with her mom now, only because she loved her so much and because she was so angry at bitter at that drunk driver for taking her away, and maybe she redirected that anger at her mother because getting angry at her father for not caring, before, during, or after the funeral, was pointless and hating that drunk driver made her feel reckless and being angry at herself felt too close to home.

It’s how Santana ends up jimmying her window and crawling out onto the roof, jumping onto the old oak tree outside her window and shimmering down the trunk every night. She could probably just go out the front door, she’s sure her father wouldn’t notice and, even if he did, he wouldn’t care; but there’s something more adventurous about sneaking out her window, something more like carefree youth than Santana’s generally used to these days. She keeps the mask hanging limply around her neck until she reaches the wall she’s been working on, tucked between two apartment buildings and just out of the way enough that Santana is the first one to start working on it; and then she sticks one earbud in, snaps her mask into place, opens her backpack and gets to work.

There’s something soothing about spray painting, something cathartic and rebellious about putting her work permanently onto something that’s supposed to be orderly and clean; Santana starts her work without really thinking about it, just sprays in shades of blue and green until the beginning of an seascape is emerging, dark and deep and blue, lonely and empty (she tries not to think too hard about the symbolism, but she’s be doing metaphors in English class lately and it makes them kind of hard to escape from).

Once Santana thinks she’s reached the halfway point of her work, she celebrates by taking a night off to get a full night’s sleep for once, before heading back out the next night. Her father’s away at some big important conference (more important than Santana’s parent-teacher conference, and she tries not to feel disappointed because she kind of expected it, but she can’t quite squash the sting), but she still sneaks out the window because she likes the risk of it, of bark against her hands and the dark ground looming below. When she gets back to her wall, she finds a small collection of fish on the middle of her seascape, sprayed so expertly they almost look as if Santana put them into the scene herself, as if she had always intended this school of fish to be twisting through the beams of light she sprayed forever ago. She should be mad that someone just started painting over her masterpiece, but it feels different, less like it’s taking away from her lonely seascape and more like it’s adding something that was always meant to be there, like it’s what Santana always planned to do right from the beginning. 

Santana steps closer and runs her fingers over the fish, tracing the tiniest tag of _BSP_ along the tail fin of the smallest fish. She grins to herself and shakes her can, lifting it to the school of fish and carefully spraying in bits of sunlight to dance across their scales.

(Santana doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment her life changes; this is the moment her soul settles.)

They work back and forth, Santana and the mysterious BSP. Santana works mostly on the background, bringing the seascape to life in beams of sunlight and bursts of bubbles and swathes of vegetation that desperately stretch towards the air above the water that they’ll never reach; BSP works on the animals, expertly adding sea life to the lonely blue world Santana creates, painting the animals in places that Santana’s already finished with such care and thought that Santana wonders if BSP isn’t reading her mind as to where each part of their little mural should go. She adds beams of light to dance of the scales of the fish BSP adds, and BSP adds tiny little krill and shrimp to swim around through the kelp Santana adds.

One day she gets there and finds a dolphin with a tiny pride flag along his gills in the middle of all the sharks and Santana laughs so hard she almost messes up the reflection of light off its skin. She never knows what BSP is going to add, and that’s half the fun; Santana works methodically, spraying one section at a time, going over it again and again to create depth and warmth, perfecting it before she moves onto the next section, but BSP adds in wherever she deems to need a burst life, sometimes going back to animals she finished weeks ago and add the finishing touches then. Sometimes the lobsters have cowboy hats, sometimes the octopi sport bowties, sometimes the fish are playing cards (Santana’s pretty sure BSP made the game _Go Fish_ , which is the cleverest and funniest thing Santana’s ever seen), and despite the fact that it lacks the realism Santana usually puts into her graffiti, she kind of really loves it. She loves how different her and BSP’s art styles are, and how it doesn’t really matter because they meld so well together anyways; they’re like complementary colours, they’re on the exact opposite sides of the colour wheel and yet they somehow manage to blend and melt together perfectly. Santana knows how complementary colours work from her art class (the only class she actually looks forward to), how when blue and orange or red and green or yellow and purple are mixed together in just the right way, they produce white light, and Santana secretly thinks of this great big mural they’ve been creating together for weeks as that. She knows it’s kind of really dumb, but she can’t help it, she titles the wall _White Light_ in her head and imagines that maybe BSP titled it the same.

They work on it for almost three months, and Santana learns more and more about BSP through her art, through the passion and energy she puts into it, through the brightness and life she imbues in each stroke, through the cleverness and wit she hides in every detail; she wonders what BSP learns about her, and some days she just stands there and stares at the masterpiece they’ve created and wonders whether BSP can see how lonely Santana was when they started, if they could see how much she felt like that deep, dark, solitary ocean she was first creating, if they could see the metaphor Santana could but didn’t want to; she wonders if BSP can see how well they work together too. She wonders if BSP realizes she doesn’t feel like that anymore.

She wants to meet BSP, but she’s terrified to do so too, wondering if BSP saw this as a competition this whole time instead of as a fusion of two vastly different art styles into one beautifully and painstakingly created masterpiece. Somehow, they’ve gone three months of almost non-stop work and still haven’t managed to run into each other, despite the fact that Santana goes works on the wall at different times every night.

It’s halfway through the third month when Santana finally gets that feeling itching at the inside of her stomach. This is the longest time she’s ever worked on one single piece, the longest time she’s gone without feeling that twinge of impatience and pride, the twinge that means it’s time to move on to a new piece, that she’s put everything she can into this one. She feels the itch, but there’s a stronger twinge in her heart at the thought of her collaboration with BSP drawing to a bittersweet end. She’s proud of the work they’ve done, but she also desperately wishes to keep working with the other artist. 

She doesn’t put as much care into her work that night, because she doesn’t want this to end yet, not when she’s finally found someone who shares the same passion and love for their work as she has. She goes home as the sun is just starting to rise and stays awake most of the day, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what to do.

When Santana gets there the next night there’s already someone standing there and working carefully, a plaid jacket tied around ripped skinny jeans and a white tank standing out stark against the dark depths of the deep sea they’re working on despite the slight chill to the air. Santana freezes in the shadows of the alleyway she stands in and just watches for a while. The artist is graceful in their movements, stretching easily to spray the bricks that are always just out of Santana’s reach.

Santana can tell just from the tug beneath her sternum that it’s BSP, and her heart starts to race. She creeps closer, grinning a little when BSP doesn’t notice her, until she’s close enough to reach out and touch the other artist. She settles for a quiet “Hey,” and practically _cackles_ with amusement when BSP jumps and shrieks, spinning around on her heel, guilt painting her face tight and pinched for a split second before she takes in Santana’s equally paint-splattered clothing and relaxes. She’s younger than Santana thought she would be for some reason, around Santana’s own age based on the high school baseball cap keeping her blonde hair out of her face, with blue eyes that shine almost indigo in the faint golden light of the streetlamp at the end of the alley and a rainbow splatters of paint across her cheeks that mimic the freckles already there.

“You’re BSP,” Santana says, and she feels almost giddy with the knowledge that she’s finally meeting the artist she’s been working with the for past almost four months.

BSP’s face stretches into a smile and something in Santana’s stomach flips over as she realizes exactly how pretty those blue eyes are when they’re sparkling with affection and happiness. “And you’re Snix,” BSP says, her eyes lit up with as much excitement as Santana feels.

“Santana,” Santana says automatically.

“Santana,” BSP says and her smile softens a little as she wipes her hand down her ripped jeans, leaving a streak of green paint against the faded blue and the pale skin peeking through the fabric. “Brittany,” she says and offers Santana her hand.

That fluttery thing tugs sharply on something beneath Santana’s sternum as she shakes Brittany’s outstretched hand, quickly clearing her throat and fighting the warmth in her cheeks as she gestures at the work beside them. “We’ve done pretty good,” she says quietly.

Brittany’s grin softens and she nods, her can of paint hanging limp and forgotten at her side. “We work really well together,” she agrees quietly, “Like— Like our art just clicks together.”

Santana fidgets with the strap of her backpack for a long moment, willing the heat in her cheeks away. “I didn’t realize my art was missing something until you put that first school of fish in there,” she whispers, suddenly shy and bashful.

Brittany shuffles a little, the paint-speckled toes of her sneakers tapping together. “I didn’t realize my art was missing anything either until I saw the start of your work.” Santana continues to play with the strap of her backpack while she tries to find words. “I think—” Brittany cuts herself off until Santana glances up, finding Brittany chewing violently on her bottom lip, releasing the pinkened skin with a small breath in. “I think this one is done though,” she whispers and she waits until Santana nods in relieved agreement before she smiles softly at her, all thin lips and bright eyes. “What do you say we start something new now?” she asks quietly, something bright and high making her voice flutter, “But— Together, from the start, this time.”

Santana can’t help the bright thing bursting from her chest and making her smile in return. “I know the perfect place,” she says just as quietly, and Brittany’s smile eases until Santana realizes that it’s nerves fading from those blue eyes. 

“Cool,” Brittany says, but the way she bites her lip and her eyes sparkle in the golden light of the streetlamp and the way something in Santana’s chest flutters in response makes Santana think that it’s a lot more than just _cool_ , especially when Santana gathers up ever ounce of courage she has and takes Brittany’s hand, dragging her off in the direction of the bare brick she’s been eyeing for a couple days now. 

(Somewhere in the back of Santana’s mind, she knows that this is the moment her life changes because something eases and settles in her chest.)

 

* * *

 

_For I’m so scared of losing you_

_And I don’t know what I can do about it_

_About it_

 

* * *

 

When Brittany’s roommate gets in engaged, she’s beyond happy for him, but also a little disappointed because it means she has to find her own place for the first time since her roommate and her moved into their apartment together five years ago. It means she has to find a place to live on her own for the first time in her life, and that makes something deep in Brittany’s stomach churn nervously despite the happy congratulatory hug she gives her roommate.

She’s heard horror stories about apartment hunting, but someone Brittany manages to find the perfect place within a week; she’s not sure what it is, but something about the place tugs at something in Brittany’s stomach, something that makes the nervous churning into happier churning. She quickly applies for the place and accepts the offer to go to a viewing for it, and she falls in love with the tiny apartment; and she’s the proud owner of it the next day, the proud resident of it barely a week later.

It’s clean and small and _hers_ for the first time ever, and she loves it despite how thin the walls are. It doesn’t matter so much for the neighbour on her right because Brittany barely ever hears her, but the neighbour on the left shares a living room wall with her and Brittany’s pretty sure he either runs a meth lab or directs pornography based on the sounds, and she’s really not interested in getting close enough to that wall to find out. It has crossed her mind, to go and knock on his door and find out what the hell he does in his living room, when she’s really bored and playing on her phone because she doesn’t have a television yet to drown out her boredom and whatever the hell her neighbour does, but when that thought crosses her head she knows it’s time to go to bed.

It’s the neighbour on her right, the one she barely ever hears that she’s more interested in, and not just because her landlord warned her about the woman who no one really knows in the complex, maybe Brittany’s so interested _because_ of that fact. She’s always liked puzzles, even if it sometimes took her longer than most to solve them, maybe _because_ of that fact, because she loves that flush of pride and satisfaction when that last puzzle piece fit itself into the last place and makes the puzzle whole. Brittany wants to meet her neighbour (the one on the right, not the left because she already met him in passing in the hallway the other week and he gave Brittany the heebie-jeebies), or she wants to at least _see_ her, but Brittany’s already lived here for three weeks and she hasn’t even got a glimpse of the other woman; the only reason Brittany isn’t worried that she’s, like, lying dead on the other side of the wall is because Brittany sometimes hears her puttering around the kitchen or in her bedroom because they share walls there. 

Brittany eventually resigns herself to the fact that she’s never going to meet her enigma of a neighbour and tries to avoid her other neighbour, the creepy one, whenever she sees him alone in the elevator, electing to take the stairs instead because _hello_ , she’s not _stupid_. She goes to work in the afternoons and gets groceries and gets coffee with some friends and tries her hardest to be a functioning adult in society, and she still sees no sign of her enigmatic neighbour aside from the occasional rattle of pots and pans or the knock of something against their shared bedroom wall. Brittany eventually gets changed to the morning shift and she smiles and nods at her boss but inwardly groans at the fact that she’s going to have to get up before six in the morning now and she _hates_ mornings. 

Her first morning shift comes far too soon and Brittany hits her snooze button three times before dragging herself out of bed, shivering in the cool air of the city before the sunrise. She stumbles her way to the bathroom and somehow manages to get toothpaste on her toothbrush and shove it in her mouth with only half an eye open. She runs the shower until steam starts to curl around the shower curtain, hoping that it will wake her up before she has to stumble out of the house in an hour.

She’s in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of her hair when she hears it, the faint, soulful sounds of what Brittany’s pretty sure is a selkie or a satyr or whichever creature it is with the inhumanly beautiful voice. Something deep inside her perks up and listens and Brittany’s hands freeze in her hair as she shuffles closer to the wall, trying to follow the music. The voice wraps around lyrics Brittany can’t really recognize because of the way the wall squishes and muffles them, but the voice still sounds like honey or molasses or something smooth and thick and dark. She shivers in the hot water still pounding around her and curling little tendrils of steam around her ankles. The voice rasps over the low parts and soars over the high parts and Brittany feels suddenly wide awake as she strains to hear the next line.

(Brittany doesn’t know it now, but this is the moment her life changes; this is the moment her soul settles.)

Brittany ends up showering with her neighbour basically every single morning, except for the fact that there’s a wall between them and Brittany doesn’t even know what her neighbour looks like, but she looks forward to it so much that she feels disappointed when, some days, one of them runs late and she doesn’t get to shower with the welcome soundtrack of her neighbour singing just a thin wall away. She loves the way that, no matter how many times she hears the slightly muffled smokiness of her neighbour’s voice, something in her chest still trembles and brightens every time.

She still doesn’t see her neighbour, or really hear her beyond those morning showers, until one night when Brittany’s getting ready for bed and hears a bloodcurdling scream. Brittany’s stomach drops and, for a second, she thinks someone’s getting murdered over, like, a drug deal or something on her creepy neighbour’s apartment, until the screaming is replaced with muffled cursing and something banging around on the wall that separates her other neighbour’s bedroom from hers. And then there’s another scream and something in Brittany’s stomach turns to ice as she scrambles over to her window. She shimmies it open and manages to crawl out onto the fire escape, only knocking a couple of picture frames off her windowsill as she drags herself out. The air is cold and raises goosebumps all along her bare arms and legs, and she hisses as her bare feet hit the grating of the fire escape, before she quickly moves over to her neighbour’s window.

It’s cracked open, and another shriek reaches her ears as Brittany leans against it and knocks on the window.

Her neighbour turns around with a slightly wild look in her eye, and Brittany quickly holds her hands up. “Hey, don’t attack me. I live in apartment 17,” she explains, pointing back the way she came, her words slurring together a little in her rush, “I’m your neighbour.”

Her neighbour relaxes a little and shakes her head. “Sorry, I thought you were, like, going to murder me or something.” 

“Me? I thought you were _getting_ murdered based on the screaming.” Her neighbour seems to blush when she ducks her head but it’s kind of hard to tell from where Brittany stands by the window. Her neighbour has dark eyes and dark hair that is drawn up into a thick bun, her sleep shorts revealing golden expanses of skin, a slightly too-large hoodie dwarfing her frame.

“Not murdered,” she says, “I just— When I came into my room there was a mouse on my pillow.”

Brittany wrinkles her nose and curiously watches as her neighbour’s breath catches. “Gross,” she agrees. “I’m Brittany and I’m not afraid of mice, do you want some help?”

“Santana,” her neighbour says easily, “And yes _please_.”

Brittany grins and Santana crosses the room to quickly move the stuff off her windowsill, a couple nicknacks and some birthday cards all haphazardly tossed on a dresser, before shoving the window further up to allow Brittany to shimmy over the windowsill.

“Fuck,” Brittany curses as she falls through the window, and Santana giggles a little; it only cuts off into a slight shriek when the mouse scurries past Brittany’s sprawled form. 

“There he is,” Brittany says brightly, quickly rolling over and scrambling after the mouse. She feels less than graceful, all limbs and no finesse, but Santana doesn’t seem to mind and her giggles fill Brittany’s mind until it’s just the mouse and amused giggling bouncing around in her brain. Brittany corners the mouse and throws a towel Santana hands her over the tiny thing, quickly scooping it up before it can escape again. They deposit the mouse onto the fire escape, shutting the window firmly and squishing together to watch it scurry out of sight.

Santana sighs deeply. “Thank you,” she says earnestly, “I don’t think I could have convinced myself to look for him, let alone catch him.”

Brittany laughs and steps back from the window, giving her enough room to do an elaborate bow. “At your service for all things mice related, ma’am,” she says in a phoney accent.

Santana giggles and clasps her hands together, delighted. “Can I offer you something to drink? For being so heroic.”

Brittany feels heat bloom across her cheeks and somewhere beneath her sternum. “You don’t have to,” she says quickly.

Santana shrugs a little. “It’s the least I could do. Plus, we’ve been neighbours for months and I haven’t even asked you for a cup of sugar,” she teases, heading out of her room.

Brittany giggles and shrugs as she trails after her. “No, but you can ask me for all mouse related evictions.”

Santana snorts but Brittany can tell, even after only knowing her for about half an hour, that it’s not derisive, just bright and amused as they eventually emerge into her kitchen. “Mouse related evictions?”

Brittany waits until Santana turns around before nodding gravely. “It’s a very serious issue,” she says, “No thought for their families or how they’ll feed their kids.”

“Ew, no,” Santana protests, her nose wrinkling up adorably, “don’t mention families, Britt, I can’t handle the thought of there being _more_ of them.”

Brittany feels this bright, lifting, warmth fill her at the nickname but she shoves it down and tries to play it cool. Santana pulls a wine bottle from a hidden rack on the side of the kitchen island and holds it up with a questioning shake. Brittany nods quickly and Santana goes rummaging through her cupboards, emerging with two mismatched wine glasses. Santana raises her glass to Brittany’s and they toast to mice evictions with bright giggles.

Santana leads Brittany to the living room after that, collapsing in the armchair, her legs tucked up under her, and leaving Brittany the entire couch all to herself. Santana suggests twenty questions, but like where they just ask each other questions back and forth and ignore the rest of the game, so it’s not _really_ twenty questions at all, Brittany tells her and Santana giggles and rolls her eyes until Brittany teasingly concedes. They ask questions back and forth, spending more time giggling and talking than drinking wine. There’s one question that Brittany’s been dying to ask the whole time, for longer than she’s met Santana, for longer than tonight or the last week or the last month, and after answering a question about her childhood cat Lord Tubbington, Brittany manages to gather every last bit of courage in her body.

“Are you a singer?” Brittany finally blurts, and then immediately bites down on her lip because now she’s going to have to explain the whole _I listen to you sing while I’m naked_ without being, like, _creepy_ about it, which seems to be kind of impossible if she’s being honest.

Santana frowns a little and shrugs. “I mean, I’d like to be. I— I’m working on it, I guess,” she answers honestly, and then her frown deepens suspiciously, “Why do you want to know?”

Brittany chews on her lip and she’s so focused on not sounding like an absolute stalker that she only barely registers how Santana’s eyes dart down to the worrying motion of Brittany’s teeth over her lips, and she only barely registers how Santana grows breathless and bashful before she looks away (she’ll remember it later tonight though, and as days turn into weeks turn into months she’ll compare it with all of the more recent breathless and bashful versions of Santana she’ll learn about and she’ll wonder and wonder and wonder).

“Um,” Brittany finally manages, “This is going to sound, like, creepy or stalker-ish or something but I promise it’s not!”

“Okay?” Santana says slowly.

“Okay, so I think we share a bathroom wall,” Brittany starts, “Or a shower wall at least. Because— Um, because I think we both shower at the same time in the morning and I can, like, hear you sing every morning.”

“Oh,” Santana says and the lack of emotion in her voice battles with the surprise and alarmed curiosity on her face.

“You’re really really good,” Brittany hurries to explain, “Like really really good. Like the first time I heard you I didn’t even realize shampoo was dripping into my eyes until they started to burn.” Santana’s face eases and she laughs a little bit, and it gives Brittany the little boost of confidence she needs. “It’s like, you have the kind of voice that makes your soul shiver and it’s really beautiful and it’s the best part of my day.”

“Thanks, Brittany,” Santana finally says, her voice small and shy and bright all at once, and something in Brittany’s stomach flips over. She coughs a little and then glances up at Brittany with a small grin. “It is a little weird to know that you listen to me sing in the shower everyday,” she teases, and Brittany knows there’s no point in fighting the blush she feels burning across her cheeks but she ducks her head anyways, “but at least I have an appreciative audience everyday.”

Brittany giggles and glances up to meet Santana’s eyes. “That thing they say about picturing your audience naked when you get nervous? Works a little bit too well in this case.”

Santana laughs, her head thrown back and her nose all scrunched up and her smile exposes these deep, deep dimples and Brittany can’t help but join in too.

(Somewhere in the back of Brittany’s mind, she knows that this is the moment her life changes because something eases and settles in her chest.)

 

* * *

 

_So tell me how long, love, before you go_

_And leave me here on my own?_

_I know it_

_I don’t wanna know who I am without you_

 

* * *

 

All of these stories are happening right now, and none of them are. All of them are true, and all of them are lies. Everything that’s happened in the past is happening right now is happening in the future. It goes as far back as Newton and Schrödinger, it emerges as recent as Neil deGrasse Tyson and Stephen Hawking, the idea that there might be an alternate universe out there where we’re happy, where we’re sad, where we never exist and where we always do.

All of these stories told are more true than the next and last, and they’re all less true than the ones before and after. They’ve happened but they haven’t, they’re inevitable but they’ll never exist.

There’s the story where they don’t ever meet, where they’re missed connections and miserable years and _almost-maybe-not-quites_. That’s the one where they would be lost and angry and sad and not fast enough and not slow enough and longing for something they never get and looking for something they don’t know and missing something they’ve never had. That story is the saddest, but it’s also the one that never really happens because their souls are always meant to find the other.

There’s the story where her she runs late for work and they crash into each other at the mouth of a back alley.

There’s the story where she sprints to catch the train and they sit together at the back of the car with their backpacks leaning together.

There’s the story where she collects her bets in the break room and comes out just in time for them to pick out jewellery for a birthday gift.

There’s the story where she picks the right wall and night after night they slowly create a masterpiece together but not.

There’s the story where she moves in next door and they shower at the same time every single morning.

In one story they meet at a coffeeshop, in the next after an attempted robbery; in one story they meet on a mall tour, in the next they both sign up for the same psych experiment; in one story they meet on a blind date and a citywide chase, in the next the meet five different times in five different lifetimes.

There’s a story for every lifetime and a lifetime for every story, but the real story? The one that’s truthful-painful-joyful? 

In that story they meet in that first week of kindergarten, blue on brown, blonde on black, hand on hand.


End file.
